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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 

MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


BJ 


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IX-"-'--  Swsjv..  •.>, 


LILT  O'   THE    BIRDS 


BY 

EMILE  PICKHARDT 


BOSTON 

SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &  COMPANY 

1912 


/?/?A- 


copybight,  1912 
Sherman,  French  &'  Company 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

YE    MERRY   BIRDS 1 

THE  CAPTIVE  BIRD 2 

JENNY   WREN 3 

THE    THRUSH 4 

THE  HOMING  DOVE 5 

O  BIRD  THAT  CLEAVES  THE  AZURE  SKIES 6 

THE  ORIOLE 7 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  BOBOLINK 8 

OH,  TELL  ME,  YE  BIRDS 9 

THE  SEA  GULL 10 

TO  A  HUMMING  BIRD 11 

THE  SONG  SPARROW 13 

THE   WOUNDED    BIRD 11 

THE  BEREAVED  ROBIN 16 

SPARE   THE    GENTLE   SONGSTER 17 

THE    WHIPPOORWILL ^^ 


M363033 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Facing  page 
FRONTISPIECE 

THE   THRUSH 4 

THE  ORIOLE 7 

THE    HUMMING    BIRD 11 

THE    SONG    SPARROW 12 

THE    BEREAVED    ROBIN 16 


YE  MERRY  BIRDS 


Oh,  where  shall  tongue  or  pen  find  words 
To  sing  your  praise,  ye  merry  birds; 

Your  pretty  forms,  your  gentle  eyes, 
Your  graceful  flight  athwart  the  skies ; 
Your  plumage  soft  of  colors  rare, 
Your  joy  songs  pulsing  everwhere? 
Xay,  Mords  of  mine  impotent  seem 
To  fitly  clothe  the  fertile  theme,  y 

Ah,  what  a  cheerless  world  'twould  be 
Without  your  song  and  flight  so  free; 

Nigh  half  the  charm  would  disappear 
Of  springtime  joys,  were  you  not  here 
A  sense  of  !)uoyancy  to  bring 
And  thoughts  of  heaven,  when  ye  sing; 

E'en  sunmicr's  glow  and  autumn's  hue 
Were  dulled  and  dreary  without  you. 

And  so  I  fain  your  charms  would  tell; 

Nor  could  I  fail  to  sing  them  well. 
Befit tingly  to  voice  your  praise, 
Could  1  hut  catch  your  thrilling  lays; 

Could  my  poor  muse  but  with  you  rise 

In  flight  amid  the  lambent  skies — 

Oh,  surely  then,  I'd  find  the  words 
To  sing  of  you,  O  merry  birds. 


rn 


THE  CAPTIVE  BIRD 

O  HAPLESS  captive,  held  by  prison  bars, 
From  all  of  joy  and  hope  in  life  apart, 

Once  of  the  free  and  joyous  woodland  throng 
That  fills  the  fragrant  air  with  vibrant  song 
From  palest  dawn  till  waking  of  the  stars, 
Dost  thou  still  hold  the  image  in  thine  heart 

Of  all  those  lovely  scenes— the  budding  flower, 
In  verdant  meadow,  where  the  zephyr  swayed 
The  crimson  clover  to  the  wand'ring  bee ; 
The  glory  of  the  bloom-crowned  apple  tree 
Where,  hid  from  ruthless  gaze  in  April  hour. 
To  thy  dear  mate  thy  try  sting  vows  were  made? 

Oh,  tell  me,  captive  with  the  mournful  lay. 

That  well  might  touch  the  coldest  heart  to  hear, 
Doth  memory's  torment  follow  also  thee? 
Is  that  the  secret  of  the  dews  I  see 
iUpon  thine  eyes,  that  gaze  so  far  away, 

As  if  through  walls  of  granite  thou  could'st  peer? 

Does  still  the  image  of  thy  gentle  mate 

Dwell  in  thy  soul,  with  whom  thou  e'er  didst  fly 
With  each  recurring  spring  to  seek  again 
That  loved  spot  where  hope  and  joy  did  reign. 
Where  near  the  downy  nest  thou  didst  await 
With  swelling  song  thy  tender  brood's  first  cry? 

Ah,  surely,  this  the  secret  font  must  be 
Of  that  supernal  pathos  in  thy  song. 

That  floods  my  soul  with  wistful  memories 
Of  lost  delights,  as  floods  the  twilight  breeze 
The  swaying  pines  with  mournful  harmony, 
Whose  sobbing  chords  to  spirit  choirs  belong. 

[2] 


JENNY  WREN 

O  Jenny  Wken,  O  Jenny  Wren, 

So  you  have  found  a  resting  place 
To  raise  your  little  brood  again, 

Within  the  dear  old  nesting  place : 
There  'neath  the  eaves,  where  drooping  leaves 

Of  willow  branches  swinging  low, 
Soft  lullabys  'neath  lambent  skies 

Are  ever  sweetly  singing  low. 

0  Jenny  Wren,  O  Jenny  Wren, 

I  love  your  bright  and  funny  ways ; 

1  love  to  see  you  building  when 
The  world  is  glad  with  sunny  days. 

You  primp  and  preen  vdth  knowing  mien 
When  Johnny  Wren  comes  flying  near; 

A  true  coquette  as  e'er  I've  met. 
You  are,  without  half  trying,  dear. 

O  Jenny  Wren,  O  Jenny  Wren, 

With  all  your  pert  and  canny  ways, 
I'm  glad  to  welcome  you  again, 

And  hope  you'll  bide  here  many  days; 
A  brood  to  rear  of  birdlings,  dear, 

On  whom  you'll  lavish  dearest  love. 
And  by  and  by  teach  them  to  fly, 

And  cleave  the  sunny  skies  above. 


[3] 


THE  THRUSH 

When  at  the  day-god's  light  caress, 

Aurora,  stirred  from  sweet  repose, 
Still  thralled  in  drowsy  listlessness, 

Doth  trembling  eyeHds  half  unclose; 
Or  when  the  garish  day  declines 

And  all  the  world  seeks  balmy  rest, 
When  twilight  softens  forms  and  lines, 

Then  sings  the  wood-thrush  at  his  best. 

Alone,  in  some  sequestered  bow'r, 

Where  leafy  arches  cast  their  shade 
And  cool,  at  mid-day's  torrid  hour, 

The  brooklet  winding  through  the  glade; 
Where  human  discord,  all  unknown. 

Ne'er  breaks  of  sacred  hush  the  spell; 
There,  in  his  cloister,  all  alone, 

In  shy  seclusion  doth  he  dwell. 

Now  pause ;  approach  not  all  too  near 

His  favored  haunt  with  careless  tread, 
So  you  a  chorister  would  hear 

Whose  rhapsodies  might  wake  the  dead. 
Untutored,  he  has  caught  the  art 

Alone,  where  nature's  spirit  broods. 
Of  giving  voice  to  nature's  heart 

And  weaving  chorals  from  her  moods. 

No  suitor  bold  for  men's  applause, 

Unconscious  of  his  powers,  he 
From  nature  inspiration  draws 

And  fills  her  halls  with  harmony. 
In  woodland  haunts,  inviolate 

By  mortals'  sordid  clamorings, 
To  his  Creator  and  his  mate 

He  brings  his  choicest  offerings. 
[4] 


THE  THRUSH 


THE  HOMING  DOVE 

O  WINGED  messenger  of  love, 

Of  hope  and  peace  and  life  in  sacred  lore, 
Tell  me,  O  silent,  swift,  unerring  minion. 
What  instinct  guides  thy  flight  on  downy  pinion 
Across  the  wastes  of  sea,  the  mountains  o'er. 

Through  wind  and  murky  storm,  through  night  and  day? 
What  hidden  power  bears  thee  on  thy  way 
Safe,  safe  unto  thy  goal  from  foreign  shore, 
O  gentle  dove? 

Nay,  none  but  He  who  rules  above 

Could  bear  thee  thus  o'er  sea  and  desert  wide; 
Nay,  none  but  God  could  clarify  thy  vision, 
Thou  symbol  of  the  soul  for  realms  elysian 
Bound.     Naught  but  spirit-prescience  e'er  could  guide 
Thee  true.     Yea,  thou  a  perfect  symbol  art 
Of  deathless  soul,  by  heaven  set  apart — 
Life's  fairest  emblem  homing  o'er  death's  tide — 
O  gentle  dove  I 


[5] 


O  BIRD  THAT  CLEAVES  THE  AZURE  SKIES 

O  BIRD  that  cleaves  the  azure  skies 

To  poise  the  tleecy  clouds  among, 
What  glories  greet  your  searching  eves 
As  to  the  vaulted  dome  you  rise, 

That  tmie  your  voice  to  thrilling  song  ? 

What  visions  of  supernal  spheres 
Draw  forth  those  melting  melodies, 

That  lilting  down  upon  mine  ears 

Bring  to  mine  eyes  unbidden  tears — 
Oh,  tell  me,  whence  those  rhapsodies? 

Oh,  tell  me,  bird,  the  secret  lore 

That  you  have  learned  in  heaven's  dome; 
Far,  far,  I  watch  you  as  you  soar 
The  treetops  and  the  mountains  o'er — 
Nay,  heaven  seems  to  be  your  home. 


[6] 


THE  ORIOLE 


THE  ORIOLE 

A  FLASH  of  gold  and  scarlet  'mid  the  green 
Of  fragrant,  blooming  appletree,  my  dear 
Old  friend  the  oriole  returns  once  more 
To  seek  his  last  year's  nesting  place,  and  rear 
His  little  brood  again;  once  more  to  cheer 
My  heart  with  his  bright  ways,  from  morn  till  e'en, 
And  sing  above  my  window  as  of  yore.  / 

Behold  the  regal  songster,  as  he  sits 

Upon  the  swaying  bough  and  preens  his  bright, 

Rich  plumage.     Now  and  then  his  head 
He  sidewise  turns,  as  if  he  would  invite 
The  wonderment  of  every  one  in  sight. 
Now  hear  him  warble,  as  he  deftly  flits 

From  bough  to  bough,  by  wayward  fancy  led. 

Now  hear  that  liquid,  tender,  golden  note ; 
He  calls  his  mate,  a  hidden  place  to  show 

Where  gnarled  branches  form  a  perfect  goal 
To  swing  their  nest,  secure  from  wanton  foe ; 
Secure  from  rain  and  mid-day's  torrid  glow. 
There  they  will  rear  their  brood,  while  from  his  throat 
Will  swell  the  song  of  matchless  oriole. 


[7] 


/  THE  SONG  OF  THE  BOBOLINK 

/ 

When  the  clover  field  is  crimson  and  the  daisies,  like  the  snow, 

O'er  the  pasture  weave  their  mantle,  pure  and  white; 
When  the  fragrant  apple  blossoms  to  the  breeze  their  perfume 
throw, 
And  the  heart  of  nature's  throbbing  with  delight ; 
Then  the  bobolink,  returning  from  his  warmer  southern  home. 

Comes  again  to  meet  the  friends  who've  missed  him  long; 
Comes  again  to  spread  his  pinions  'neath  the  northern  azure  dome, 
Comes  again  to  greet  us  with  his  matchless  song: 
Bobolincon,  bobolincon,  ling,  lang,  ling; 
Bobolincon,  bobolincon,  cling,  clang,  cling; 
Oh,  listen  to  his  singing,  to  the  jubilating  ringing 

Of  the  melody  he's  flinging  to  the  breezes,  on  the  wing! 

Now  he  rises  o'er  the  meadow  in  his  wanton  spiral  flight, 

Now  he  pauses,  all  a-flutter,  in  mid  air; 
Now  he  swings  upon  a  swaying  plume  of  meadow  queen,  alight, 

With  his  wings  outspread  to  keep  him  balanced  there. 
And  anon  he  sounds  a  keynote,  soft  and  lute-like  is  its  tone. 

Low  and  liquid  like  aeolian  harmony ; 
Now  again  he  rises  upward  with  a  choral  all  his  own, 
With  an  outburst  of  exultant  melody: 
Bobolincon,  bobolincon,  ling,  lang,  ling; 
Bobolincon,  bobolincon,  cling,  clang,  cling; 
Oh,  listen  to  his  singing,  to  the  jubilating  ringing 
X  Of  the  melody  he's  flinging  to  the  breezes,  on  the  wing! 


[8] 


OH,  TELL  ME,  YE  BIRDS 

Ye  birds  that  to  spheres  empyrean  belong. 

And  cleave  the  vast  oceans  of  air, 
Oh,  tell  me,  why  only  ye  revel  in  song, 

Of  all  God's  creation  so  fair. 
No  other  plumed  creatures  that  wander  abroad 

In  field  or  in  fen  ever  pour 
Forth  passionate  utt'rance  of  worship  to  God 

Like  ye,  who  in  azure  depths  soar. 

No  creature  that  trails  its  slow  progress  along, 

Ungifted  with  swift,  easy  flight, 
E'er  startles  the  silence  with  jubilant  song, 

Man's  listening  ear  to  delight; 
None  other  but  ye  that  mount  ever  on  high, 

To  heaven's  imperial  dome. 
With  ravishing  chorals  bring  dews  to  the  eye, 

And  longings  for  heaven  and  home. 

Ah,  surely,  'tis  that  the  good  Father  has  bid 

His  angels  reveal  to  ye  birds 
The  glories  of  heaven  in  melodies  hid. 

Too  pure  for  expression  in  words. 
That,  hearing,  we  also  in  spirit  may  rise 

Above  sordid  pleasure  and  care, 
And  learn  of  the  angels  that  dwell  in  the  skies 

The  glories  that  wait  for  us  there. 


[9] 


THE  SEA  GULL 

I  GAZE  afar  where  the  stormy  sea 
Is  merged  with  the  sky  in  gloom, 

And  ever  there  comes  a  dream  to  me 
Of  a  life  beyond  the  tomb. 

As  the  white  gull  stems  the  winds  that  play 

Above  the  foamy  crest 
Of  the  curling  wave  that  flings  its  spray 

Against  his  downy  breast ; 

Though  backward  thrown  again  and  again, 
He  mounts,  unwearied,  anew. 

The  eddying  blast  'mid  the  surging  rain, 
To  his  haven  ever  true. 

How  like  the  spirit  of  man  is  he, 
That  rises  from  sorrow  and  woe 

On  the  wings  of  hope  o'er  life's  wild  sea 
When  the  storm  winds  wildest  blow ! 

Oh,  rise,  my  soul,  to  the  vaulted  dome, 
Though  trials  come  thick  and  fast, 

For  courage  and  hope  will  bear  thee  home 
To  a  haven  of  rest  at  last! 


[10] 


THE  HUMMING  BUW 


TO  A  HUMMING  BIRD 

REATION  rare! 

O  fairy  bird — elusive  phantom  bright, 
Now   darting  through  my   open   window, 

where 
The  drooping  rose-spray  scents  the  wood- 
land air; 
Now  poising,  fixt  in  space,  a  living  gem 
Well  fit  to  grace  a  June  queen's  dia- 
dem; 
Now,  like  a  sentient,  pulsing  ray  of  light, 
Disporting  'mong  the  flow'rs,  too  swift  for 
sight. 
To  mingle  there 

Thy  emerald  with  the  gold,  thy  scarlet, 
pure, 
With  warm  shade,  where  the  lilacs  hide  from 

view 
The  crumbling  wall — thy  bronze,  with  pur- 
ple hue 
Of  fragrant  iris — thou,  indeed,  alone 
The   name    of    fairy    queen    of    birds 
shouldst  own! 
E'er  peerless  shall  thy  magic  spell  endure 
My  wayward  fancy  ever  to  allure, 
O  vision  fair. 


[11] 


THE  SONG  SPARROW 

When  lately  winter's  blasts  are  laid 

And,  through  the  crusted  snow 
The  bare  brown  fields  in  sheltered  glade 

Their  sodden  furrows  show; 
When  still  the  leafless  trees  resist 

Fair  virgin  spring's  caress 
And  but  in  sheltered  nooks,  sun-kissed, 

Bold  leaflets  upward  press, 


Among  the  first  of  feathered  friends 

The  waking  earth  to  greet, 
The  bright  song-sparrow  early  lends 

His  presence  trim  and  neat. 
Full  bold,  yet  unobtrusive,  he 

Comes  forth  at  peep  o'  day, 
Exploring  cranny,  nook  and  tree 

Jn  dainty  vesture  gray. 


V 


[12] 


THE  SONG  SPARROW 


^S' 


His  pleasing  song  falls  on  the  ear 

Of  early  passerby 
With  high-keyed  tones,  full,  vibrant,  clear. 

And  wakes  a  glad  reply 
In  nature's  heart  and,  like  a  call 

Of  spring's  reveille,  brings 
The  drowsy  buds  to  hfe,  while  all 

The  earth  with  music  rings. 


<^^-      ...i>'^' 


[13] 


THE  WOUNDED  BIRD 

O  STRICKEN  bird,  what  cruel  fate 

Has  filled  with  woe  thy  gentle  breast? 
What  wanton  fiend  hath  lain  in  wait 
To  tear  thee  from  thy  loving  mate, 
Thy  helpless  fledglings  in  the  nest? 

Ah,  struggle  not  in  vain  to  fly 

And  torture  more  thy  broken  wing; 
Thy  mute  appeal  for  help,  wellnigh. 
Would  dim  with  tears  a  stoic's  eye. 

From  hardest  heart  a  sigh  would  wring. 

Oh,  couldst  thou  speak,  what  anguished  tale 

Wouldst  thou  outpour  in  Pity's  ear ! 
Dost  think  of  thy  dear  birdlings  frail 
As,  bleeding  there,  thy  pulses  fail 
And  thou  beholdest  death  so  near? 

They  call — Ah  me,  thou  canst  not  go! 

No  more  the  shelter  of  thy  wing 
And  downy  breast  thy  young  may  know; 
No  more  may  mother-love  bestow 

On  them  its  care,  nor  comfort  bring. 

That  morsel,  which  thou  boldest  still 

In  death,  tells  of  thy  quest  for  food; 
Tells  of  thy  homeward  flight  to  fill 
Those  hungry  mouths,  nor  boding  ill, 
To  nestle  o'er  thy  little  brood. 


[14] 


Alas,  alas !     In  vain  they  call. 

In  vain  their  httle  mouths  they  ope. 
What  black  despair  on  thee  doth  fall, 
As  death  o'erspreads  thee  with  its  pall 
And  dims  thy  last  fond  ray  of  hope ! 

No  more  wilt  thou  with  gladsome  song 

Imbibe  the  vernal  zephyr's  breath. 
Or  wake  thy  young.     One  grievous  wrong 
Destruction  wrought.     They,  too,  ere  long. 
Like  thee,  will  all  be  cold  in  death ! 


[15] 


THE  BEREAVED  ROBIN 

O  PRETTY  mother  robin, 

What  makes  your  cry  so  shrill? 

What  makes  you  flit  from  bough  to  bough. 
This  April  morning  chill? 

Ah,  gentle  mother  robin. 

What  wonder  that  you  cry! 
Your  young  have  fallen  from  the  nest 

And  cold  in  death  they  lie. 

O  tender  mother  robin, 

Those  young  you  brooded  o'er 
So  lovingly  in  downy  nest 

Will  greet  you  nevermore. 

O  stricken  mother  robin. 

The  cruel,  thoughtless  boy 
Who  robbed  you  of  your  tender  brood 

Has  reft  your  life  of  joy. 

O  frantic  mother  robin, 

What  words  can  tell  the  grief 

That  rends  your  gentle  mother  heart 
With  wounds  beyond  relief  ? 

O  childless  mother  robin, 

My  tears  for  you  shall  flow ; 
May  God  grant  you  forgetfulness 

From  all  your  mother's  woe. 


vv-;"  ,1///' 


[16] 


THE  BEREAVED  ROBIN 


SPARE  THE  GENTLE  SONGSTER 

Oh,  spare  the  gentle  songster 

Whose  carols  in  the  morn 
Wake  us,  with  joyous  melody, 

To  day  and  hope  new-born. 
Still  not  his  throbbing  pulses. 

Maim  not  his  graceful  wing ; 
Stay  not  his  flight  beneath  the  skies, — 

The  bird  was  made  to  sing. 

Stayv  hunter,  stay  that  missile, 

That  messenger  of  death ; 
Mar  not  pure  heaven's  harmony, 

Rob  not  its  voice  of  breath, — 
The  voice  that  breaks,  unbidden. 

Forth  from  a  joyous  heart 
To  sing  the  love  of  nestlings  dear, 

In  nature's  purest  art. 

Think  of  the  wee  ones  waiting 

For  mother  care  and  love ; 
Think  of  that  dying  agony 

That  calls  to  heaven  above, 
That  calls  for  help  and  pity, 

Where  none  to  help  is  nigh. 
On  orphaned  birdlings  left  alone 

To  hunger  and  to  die. 

Oh,  spare  the  gentle  songster 

Whose  lays  at  eve  delight. 
Whose  vesper  anthems  glorify 

The  coming  of  the  night; 

[17] 


Still  not  his  throbbing  pulses, 
Maim  not  his  graceful  wing; 

Stay  not  his  flight  beneath  the  skies- 
The  bird  was  made  to  sing. 


[18] 


THE  WHIPPOORWILL 

When  the  earth,  from  slumber  waking, 

Thrills  to  gentle  spring's  caress. 
And  all  nature  seems  partaking 

Of  new  joy  and  loveliness; 
And  the  silvery  moon  in  splendor 
Mounts  above  the  vale  and  hill, 
i   Flooding  earth  with  glory  tender, 
\      Comes  again  the  whippoorwill. 

Listen,  listen !     Hush — be  still : 

"Ku- whippoorwill !     Ku-whippoorwill !" 

How  his  love-notes  throb  and  thrill. 

On  the  mystic  silence  falling, 

As  to  distant  mate  he's  calling : 

"  'Whippoorwill !     Ku-whippoorwill !" 

Oft  at  eve,  when  gently  drifting 

In  my  quaint  gondola,  light, 
Down  the  stream,  and  star-beams,  sifting 

Through  the  curtain  of  the  night. 
With  their  magic  glow  supernal 
All  the  world  around  me  fill. 
Then  I  love  to  hear  the  vernal 
Love-song  of  the  whippoorwill. 
Listen,  listen !     Hush — be  still : 
"Ku-whippoorwill !     Ku-whippoorwill  !'* 
How  his  love-notes  throb  and  thrill, 
On  the  mystic  silence  falling. 
As  to  distant  mate  he's  calling: 
"  'Whippoorwill !     Ku-whippoorwill !" 


[19] 


<:D311l77bi 


